


My Boy Builds Coffins

by the_divine_comedian



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But also, Canon Compliant, Choking, F/M, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 03, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is in prison, Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Minimal Research Was Done, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Title from a Florence + the Machine Song, author also doesn't know how het relationships work, because will and hannibal kind of contact each other oops, can't live with him can't live without him, i accidentally gave will a, kind of, letter writing, lol, or how to fix a sink, that awkward moment when this cute guy from home depot is actually dating a cannibal serial killer, this author doesn't know how to build a dog house, what happened during the three year time jump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_divine_comedian/pseuds/the_divine_comedian
Summary: Bedelia smiled at him, then, her lioness haunches tense and ready to strike at his wounded belly. “Is your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannibal know each other?”_____What happened during the three year time jump in season three (a lot), how did Will and Molly meet (Home Depot), did Hannibal and Will last without contacting each other (no).
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 34
Kudos: 58





	1. He Looks like a Killer

**Author's Note:**

> my friend made the mistake of saying that Will and Molly met at Home Depot and she took him home like a sad stray dog and now that is canon to me, thanks 
> 
> this first chapter is half a character study into Molly, half start of a whole new life for Will

**Prelude**

It was always like sinking into someone else’s skin, sitting in her living room. 

There were no lights on; the golden daylight that poured in through the open, heavy curtains was warm and bright enough. He felt bare, stripped naked before her, and any more vivid exposure would leave him assaulted and seen. He wasn’t there for her to see everything, she didn’t deserve to see anything he hadn’t hand carved and placed on a platter for her to perceive and devour. 

_Is this where_ he _sat?_ He wondered, as he always did, during their sessions. _While she attempted to pick apart the version of himself that she was permitted to understand?_

Course, he wasn’t a fool. He could see why she had been useful, entertaining. She was gorgeous, in that thin-nosed, hushed glamorously wealthy way. And she herself wasn’t a fool: she was dangerously perceptive when she was allowed to be. Also, he guessed, when she wasn’t. It was easy for him to imagine her waltzing the streets of Italy, big hat and upturned nose. Or charming her way through snobbish circles at a soiree. 

She had been his stand-in, his understudy. But she had been excessively better at it than he could have dared to be. 

He pressed his back into the leather of the chair as his jaw and tongue unstuck and fiddled to ask a question he had often asked himself, “All that time that you were with Hannibal, behind the veil... you’d already killed one patient.” His eyes, that had been glued to the dark silk wrapped around her long, vulnerable neck, moved to meet her own gelid and unwavering gaze. “Did it ever occur to you to kill another?” 

As always, her passive, bored expression remained unchanged. But he had been reading her for several sessions now, and he knew that slow, answering blink was her own person-suit zipping up. She had thought about it, then. Just as he had. He pictured a gun, cocked and heavy, in her white marble fingers. 

“My relationship with Hannibal is not as passionate as yours,” came her articulate murmur. 

This, he had known. He had caged his monster years ago, gotten him to heel— she hadn’t. Hannibal wouldn’t obey her. He hadn’t tried to eat her. 

He parted his hair now, had put product in the curls and brushed them aside. The scar on his forehead was thin and silver and undeniable. He was no longer ashamed of others seeing— of others _asking_. A small, dark ache in the back of his head sneered as he looked at her own, blemish-less face, body. Familiar was that creeping cold jealousy when he remembered how unharmed she had been. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen to display his own marking. Passionate, she’d said. What were blood and scars and forgiveness if not passion? 

He felt her words between them before he’d registered that she had continued. “You are here visiting an old flame.” Her lips pursed in humor, eyes shining as if the two of them shared a private joke. 

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d insinuated at the nature of their— his and Hannibal’s— shared passion. She had often compared their relationship to that of an old wife and the new woman, but he never found humor in it. It was entirely incorrect and kitschy. She’d been Hannibal’s wife in cover only. 

And nothing about him was new. 

Bedelia smiled at him, then, her lioness haunches tense and ready to strike at his wounded belly. “Is your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannibal know each other?”

_________

**Three years earlier**

Molly was done with men. 

She’d never been particularly good with them, even when she was going through several boyfriends a year back in college (each dingy and charming and utterly wrong for her). Back then, life was sips of cheap booze and heated kisses and the fear of getting pregnant with the child of some lazy fuck’s sperm. She’d been done with men after that, too. 

A white picket fence, three kids, and a cat was not the future she’d envisioned for herself anyway. Molly wanted to be out in nature; she wanted to hike and travel and get drunk on whiskey (she always wanted to be drunk in her twenties, probably due to her extensively traumatizing catholic upbringing). She wanted to shave her head, or twist locks, and climb trees. 

But then she met him. He was a baseball player— a good one, people who understood that sort of thing, said— tall, with sandy hair and the handsomest smile she’d ever seen. If he was a bit of a rake, she ignored it. Molly went to his games and learned the rules: like what a shortstop was and when to yell ‘fair ball!’ 

In return, he took her to dinner and brought her flowers. Kissed her senseless and made love to her, like she was worth making love to, not some cheap lay. When the pregnancy test stripped two blue lines, Molly was brimming with joy. He cried happy tears with her when she told him. 

They were married a month later. He was old fashioned like that, smiling his rakish smile and kissing her neck, teasing about her honor. The pregnancy was hard on the move, he had to travel for baseball and Molly wanted to be with him for every bit of it. Her feet swelled and he carried her to bed, put his hand between her thighs and kissed her collarbone. It was easy, at the end of the day. To love him. 

Walter was born in the spring. His face was wrinkly and pink, his eyes wide and alert. He looked like his father. 

He was diagnosed with Cancer not even a year later. Molly had Wally slung on her hip, his soft head on her breast, while her husband sat at the kitchen table and showed her his results. 

Molly didn’t cry then.

They had five years to prepare. Five years of tests and stupid treatments and lying doctors... then truthful doctors she hoped were lying... and yet nothing could prepare her for the cold ache that tilted her world when he was gone. She wept for hours, days, months, until her eyes were dry and spent. Friends came over to help with Wally, and helped her cook dinner when she needed it. 

She stared into her six year old son’s eyes,— _his_ eyes— packed up their bags, and bought a house in Main. House was a generous word, it was a sturdy cabin; complete with an upstairs and six acres of trees. But this was their life now, just the two of them. No father, no more men. 

Molly had always loved the woods, ancient and real and not going anywhere.

_______

_“— apprehended three months ago to the day. The FBI has yet to release any more details on the case or the fate of Hannibal Lecter, despite the protests outside the BSHCI asking for justice and clarification on what’s to be done with—“_ the evening news blared in the background. 

“WALLY!” Molly yelled, huffing a laugh as Candle’s paws muddied her sheets, slobber oozing out of her toothy mouth. 

Footsteps pounded outside her room. “Yeah, Mom?” 

Molly was shoving Candle’s weight off her, glaring at the threshold. “Please ah, _Candle DOWN_ , put your dog to your room.” 

Wally cocked an eyebrow at her— when had he gotten sassy? For a nine year old, Walter knew how to stand his ground, to Molly’s ever growing despair and amusement. “He’s technically your dog,” he said. “You bought her.”

Candle swiped her pink tongue across Molly’s cheek. “For you, stinker!” 

He wasn’t looking at them anymore, his youthful, rounded face tilted up to look at the TV. A pretty newscaster was droning on, pictures of blurred victims and names thrown around the screen. 

Molly watched him swallow. “Is that about the cannibal guy?” 

A picture flashed over the screen: a man in an expensive suit and slicked back hair smiling slightly at the camera, like he knew something you didn’t, his arm pressed against another man’s— his face was turned away, but she could make out dark hair and pale skin. Something about the image chilled her, stomach fluttering with unease. She shouldn’t let Wally see this. It cut back to the blonde anchor. 

She laughed. “Yeah. Isn’t that so crazy? Imagine thinking people tasted good.” 

Wally swiveled around and grinned at her. “Maybe Candle’s just trying to eat you, and that’s why she licks you so much.” 

“Really, Walls. I can’t have her sleep in my bed one more night. Take her to your room.” 

He tilted his head again, eyes narrowing in concentration. It reminded her softly of his father. “What if we built her a dog house?” 

Molly thought about it. “That’s not a bad idea, stinker. I love a good project. Maybe Sunday we could head over to Home Depot and get some supplies?” 

His eyes bulged, jaw dropping. “Seriously?” 

She shrugged. “Yeah. I think it could be good for you. And anything to get Candle to stop ruining my sheets and getting saliva everywhere.” Something hummed in her veins, her posture suddenly alert. It took her a minute to recognize this as excitement. 

Wally was hugging her around the neck then, pressing a kiss to the slobber-less side of her face and dashing out of her room and down the stairs. She blinked. 

“WALTER ANDREW YOU FORGOT—“ but Candle was already asleep and pressed to her side. What the hell. Molly began to pet her soft fur and felt the warmth and strength of the dog beneath her palm. A dog house would be a good distraction for Wally. This time of year was hard on them, harder than he ever let on.

_“Graham refuses to speak to investigators and our journalists, and has released no statement about his involvement in Lecter’s capture or his crimes.”_

The anchor continued, and Molly found her eyes glued to the TV. A mug shot of a man with untamed curls that touched his neck and dark circles under his eyes stared back at her— she recognized it, briefly, and remembered that a year or two ago they’d arrested his man, Graham something, for several murders only for him to be released under “new evidence” months later. She remembered how intensely the news had followed him and his crazed blue eyes. Her friends and colleagues gossiped about him at work. 

He looked like a killer. 

_“Jack Crawford, FBI, has dropped all investigation of Graham and simply stated: He had absolutely no involvement in the murders and would no longer be questioned.”_

Molly felt herself scoff. It sounded like a drama, a soap opera cop show, not a real life case with deaths and cannibalism and probably-murderers released from questioning because he buddied up to the FBI. 

It all felt so far away and superficial. No way this had happened states away from her, and from Wally. Nothing touched them in Main. It was the edge of the world. 

The screen changed again, a new mugshot. 

He’s cheekbones cut into his face like knives; everything about his face was sharp and angular— his jaw, his nose, his lips that curled into a gentle quirk. He had dark eyes, hooded, but calm. Polite.

It was the man in the suit from before. But his hair was shorter, it fell across his brow a bit, and looked grayer. The white of his prison suit made his skin look sallow, but not all together unattractive. He looked innocent. 

The name beneath it read Hannibal Lecter. 

Molly turned off the TV. 

__________

Wally ended up not coming to Home Depot. 

His friends had invited him over to watch the game (she wasn’t exactly a football fan, it’s not her fault she forgot) and he had begged her to go. 

“So should we postpone the trip for after school tomorrow?” 

Wally had adamantly shaken his head. “No that’s okay. I really wanna start it then. But I made a list of all the things you’ll need.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a list— crumpled and sticky, but legible. 

“I borrowed a book from the library. It told me all the stuff we’d need. I wrote it down for us! You can take it.” His eyes were wide and pleading. “Please, mom.”

Of course she relented. 

The problem was that the list was very, very vague. Molly knew her way around Home Depot— they didn’t have a lot of extra money between them, and she did most of the home repairs herself. But she’d never built a dog house before, and didn’t know what kind of boards they needed, or what kind of saw to— 

“Don’t pick glue. If you’re trying to build something with that wood, you’re gonna need nails.” 

The voice startled her. She whipped around to see the man who’d spoken. Molly nearly glared. “I can handle this myself thank you.” 

He didn’t meet her gaze behind his glasses. “Okay.” His voice was soft. “I’m sure.” Molly was pretty sure he meant it, and she felt a ping of guilt. He probably worked here; he didn’t have a name tag or vest, but he seemed insanely in his element. Thick wool flannel stretched over slightly hunched shoulders, sturdy boots on his feet. 

“Look— I’m just embarrassed. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and I need this to be perfect for my son. He wants to build a dog house and I said yes because he really needs something to do, something to keep him occupied and I want him to be passionate about something and.....” Molly flushed. “My god, I’m so sorry for just spilling that all on you. Ignore me.” 

She tentatively looked at him. He was staring at her this time, mouth rosy and slightly parted from under his stubble of facial hair. Soft curls framed his face, and caressed his forehead. 

His eyes were the bluest thing she’d ever seen. 

“It’s...” he seemed to search for the right way to say she was absolutely insane and run the other way. “Okay. Really. Um, what kind of dog do you have? That’ll really help you figure out what you need. How strong it’ll have to be, the square footage.” 

“A St. Bernard,” Molly said, before she understood why. “She’s a rescue, about two years old, the kennel thought.” 

The man nodded. Like this was a normal conversation. Like she wasn’t a stranger. Like he cared. He cleared his throat. “She might still be growing. I’d recommend you overshoot on the size.” 

“Build a lot of dog houses, do you?” Molly said, because she hated herself. 

He dropped his gaze behind her again. “Not anymore. But I did, growing up.” 

“A dog enthusiast?” Turning to look at the wall of shelves behind her so that he wouldn’t think her desperate, Molly bit the inside of her cheek. A self chastisement. 

“Yeah,” His voice was far away, he was reminiscing, maybe. “Something like that.” He paused, seeming unsure about whether he should continue. “I’ve got seven.” 

Molly’s brow furrowed. “You’ve had seven dogs?” 

“ _Have_ seven. Currently.” 

She whipped her head around to look at him. Blue eyes flicked over to her from the side, briefly. “No dog houses, though.” 

Molly laughed. 

______

They stared at the pile of wood, hammer, saw, and assorted nails in something akin to horror. 

“We can do this,” Molly said. “We are strong, independent women.” 

Wally laughed like he always did when she said that, a private joke they shared ever since they’d heard the phrase on some eleven a.m. talk show. “We can.” His voice was high and excited, as he looked up to catch her eye. “We can do this for Candle.” 

As if hearing her name, Candle let out a deep bark from the porch of their cabin. 

Timidly, Molly reached out and grasped one of the boards. “Lets measure before we start sawing anything. Do you have the paper I gave you?” 

Wally nodded and handed it to her. 

The man from Home Depot had drawn it; basically chicken scratch, he’d sketched out what looked like a dog house plus the measurements for each side. Notes about where to nail the planks together, where to saw filled the margins. She had been baffled when he handed it to her, his gazed hadn’t met hers. When she thanked him, he’d shrugged. They’d spent nearly twenty minutes speaking, sharing dog tips and tricks. She got him to laugh, once. It was a tender, fragile thing. It sounded like he hadn’t laughed in years. 

She found herself smiling at the memory of his nervous blue eyes. 

“Okay,” Molly released a breath. “Let’s do this.” 

_______

“Got all your stuff?” Molly was peeking her head into Wally’s room, watching him zip up his suitcase. Stitched onto the front was the logo of his father’s baseball team. Her heart gave an involuntarily squeeze.

“Yep,” he replied, huffing as he swung the suitcase to the floor. 

The sound of tires on the gravel filled the room and Candle was barking loudly, pawing at the door. One weekend a month Wally spent at his grandparents’ house on the lake, something Molly’s late husband suggested during those last months in the hospital. A way for them to stay in contact and feel like family. They never liked Molly much, but simply adored their grandson. Spring was well and nearly here, even in dead fucking cold Maine, which ensured a pleasant trip. 

With a quick, tight hug and a kiss to her cheek, Wally was out the door and running over to his grandpa. 

Molly stood in the threshold, giving them a small wave. Out of politeness, they waved back. 

She watched as the car drove down the gravel road and into the trees, disappearing behind the sun. The days stretched longer now. Molly sighed and shut the door, the house feeling emptier already. She’d grown used to the quiet ache whenever Wally was gone, but it was an ache nonetheless. Candle’s wet nosed and slick tongue pushed at her fingers. Giving in, Molly scratched her head with genuine fondness. 

Caffeine, she thought dimly. Some coffee and she’ll go for a walk. Candle would like that. 

She made her way into the kitchen, Candle at her heels. The news was on in the living room--to keep her company-- the weatherman vibrantly explaining that it would be “ _Sun, sun, and more sun!”_ into next week. 

_“Next up we have a new development in the case of serial killer cannibal, Hannibal Lecter.”_ Molly groaned, but turned up the volume anyway. Curious. 

_“Lecter’s defense attorney is now calling for a plea of insanity, to escape the death penalty.”_

She grabbed the coffee pot and set it in the sink. The TV showed a man in a smart suit, a bit of a dark beard, lips twisted in reserved passion. He looked utterly sure of himself, and angry. Beneath him read the name Frederick Chilton, psychiatrist. _“He has to be some unsightly shade of crazy,”_ Dr. Chilton’s voice echoed through the cabin. _“He doesn’t believe what he does is cannibalism. He thinks he’s better than people-- better than you and better than me. Hannibal Lecter thinks himself God. Is that not the very definition of insanity?”_

_Every man thinks he’s god,_ Molly didn't say. Because she was alone in her house with a dog and had nothing to say to anyone. She turned the sink on and a stream of water weakly dribbled out, followed by the sound of spraying inside the cabinet beneath her. 

“Fuck!” This she did say, because fuck it, she was alone in her house with a dog and no son to be a good role model for. She turned the knob off, getting on her knees to inspect the problem. “Shit, fuck.” She hashed out for good measure. Opening the cabinet doors, Molly saw it immediately: a crack in the pipe. She sighed out a third and final, “fuck me” and craned up to look at the clock. It was a little past four, which meant stores would still be open for a good few hours. 

Turning the key in the ignition, Molly felt a tingle of adrenaline curl down her arms. The entire thirty minute drive she tried desperately hard not to think of blue eyes. 

She told herself she was _not_ looking for dark curls or a flash of brown glasses. Molly was a woman on a mission: fixing her sink. No ulterior motives at all. She had a son, and a slobbery dog, and her own house. With a broken sink. 

Finding the putty to fix the pipe was easy enough, to her confused dismay. She grabbed with a sigh and turned to the checkout counter— 

There. He was standing right there. By the paint, a couple feet away. Blue blue blue eyes and glasses and curls. 

She opened her mouth to speak, “H—“ 

“Abigail, not this again,” he mumbled to himself. “You know why we can’t do that.” 

His voice was fond and soft. Molly looked at him, hands at his sides— not a phone then. Who was he speaking to? 

She watched as his hand reached out and timidly brushed a swatch of a deep red. It almost looked black against the pale color of his finger. 

“Hi,” she said, before she could stop herself. “I don’t know if you remember me… you helped me with the dog house?” 

He seemed to startle at her words, ripping his hand away. His eyelashes blinked rapidly as his head snapped to look at her, sucking in a shaky breath as he seemed to register her presence for the first time. “Oh.” 

Molly wanted to kick herself. “I’m sorry, that was super weird. I hope you have a nice day.” 

“How’d it turn out?” 

She blinked. “The dog house? Fine. Candle still spends most of her nights curled up in bed with me, but my son and I had a blast building it.” 

Blue eyes seemed less on the edge of a mental breakdown, and almost smiled at her. “Candle. I like it. I’m glad to have helped.” 

“How are your dogs?” She asked, taking a step closer. 

He didn’t seem to mind. “They’re fine. I’m, uh, I’m looking for more permanent property up here so they’re being looked after by some,” he paused. “Colleagues.”

“Now that didn’t sound suspicious at all.” 

He froze. 

“I’m kidding— I’m teasing you,” Molly rushed out. “Are you… alright?” 

Blue eyes peered at her. “I’m fine. You’ve caught me on an off day. The truth is, I miss my dogs.” He chuckled a bit, and rubbed at his jaw. Fingers twisting between the stubble. “Sometimes it gets so quiet, and I hate it. Makes me miss the three-in-the-morning barking to go outside.” 

Molly felt herself nodding. “My son is gone for the weekend, so it's just me and Candle. I can’t imagine how empty the house would be if we didn’t have her.”

He studied her moment, letting her words sink in. Something shifted in the air around them. “Just you and your son, then?” He asked. “And Candle?” 

“Yep,” she swallowed. “Just you and… when you’re with them, seven dogs?” 

He nodded slowly, lips parting like he was about to admit something secret, but his eye caught on the putty in her hand. “What seems to be the trouble?” 

“Oh Jesus,” she laughed. “My sink. Can you believe it? I was just trying to make a pot of coffee. The pipe has a crack in it.” Did her voice sound weird to him, too? 

He raised his eyebrows. Something was on his forehead, hidden beneath the curls that clung to his face. A line of some kind, stretching across the skin above his right eye. “Best of luck to ya,” he said, offering her a small smile. 

“What’s your name?” Molly felt rude. 

A small crease appeared above the rim of his glasses, exposing a line of black stitching beneath his curls. She’d almost forgotten seeing it--vaguely-- the first time. “Will.” 

“I’m Molly,” She smiled. 

Will gazed at her like he was _seeing_ her, for the first time. Those piercing blue eyes studied her; her red sweater, muddy boots, rough hands. Her stringy blonde hair she suddenly wished she’d washed before she came. “Do you need a hand with your sink?” 

“No,” she said quickly. “But you can come over for a hot meal if you want company.” 

____

In the end, Will had helped. 

Mostly because he looked so awkward, standing in her kitchen with his wool socks and overgrown scruff, practically blushing. It was disgustingly charming. 

She peeked up at him from her crouch on the ground. “You look like you need a job to do.” 

If it were possible, his neck flushed a deeper red under the color of his thick flannel. “I don’t like feeling useless.” He thought for a moment. “Laziness is one of the deadliest sins, they say.” 

“Well, it’s not being lazy if you have nothing to do,” Molly countered, sitting up. She dusted her hands off on the front of her jeans. “But I hear ya. Do you want to start dinner for us?” 

Will frowned. “I’m not a good cook.” 

Molly grinned. “I bet you can handle a couple of stakes. Just seer 'em on the stove for a bit and we’ll put them in the oven. Too complicated?” 

He nearly smiled then, one side of his mouth curling up almost wickedly, sharing a private joke. “Not too complicated at all.” 

She guided him through the fridge for the meat, and then in the cupboards for the pan and sheet. They went to work, falling into comfortable silence. The crackling in the pan screamed of domesticity and she felt something in her shoulders unravel. 

It only took her about five minutes to finish up, before she washed her hands and began to help Will. They placed the stakes on cookie sheets and slid them in the oven quickly. She went to the freezer and held up two different bags of microwavable vegetables. Will studied them with intensive scrutiny until he poked at her right hand, which made her laugh until she snorted. 

The microwaved beeped in completion, which alerted a previously sleeping Candle to pound her paws into the wood floor and come check out all the goings-on. The moment Will had crossed the threshold she’d loved him, and he her, getting on his knees and taking all the slobber with sobering humility and honor. She ran to his feet then too, demanding his attention. His lips once again curled into that half smile, rubbing her head gentling between his hands. 

“Good dog,” he mumbled. Molly’s heart lurched strangely. 

She suggested they eat on the couch and he hadn’t looked at her crazy, just nodded and got comfortable on the cushions. They sat on opposite sides, bodies twisted in to face each other. 

“Oh,” Will said, surprise coloring his features. “This isn’t bad.” 

Molly snorted, “High fucking praise indeed.”

He raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing else. 

“Favorite color?” 

“What?” 

She rolled her eyes, “What’s your favorite color?” 

His eyes narrowed, playful. “Red. Why do you want to know?” 

“I want to get to know you,” She offered. “Where did you grow up?” 

He shifted, but answered. “Louisiana. Eventually New Orleans. What's your favorite color?” 

“Green,” She said. “What do you do?” 

She watched him scold and slow his reaction. “I was a teacher.” 

“Was?” 

“It wasn’t really for me. In the end.” Will sighed deeply, taking a swig of his beer. “I’m trying to move on and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life.” 

Molly nodded, “Hear, hear.” Before taking a drink from her own bottle. “That’s what brought you to Maine?” 

“I’m staying at a friend’s cabin right now. It's not permanent, just till I clear my head and find a new place.” It felt like an omission. “I was living in Virginia-- it's not a huge distance. But it feels… so far away from everything. Here in the woods.” 

“That’s why I moved back,” Molly admitted, voice lowering a notch or two. “I love the woods. And being away from everything.” 

They glanced at each other and shared a smile. He gave her a real one, teeth and everything. 

It was her turn to study him. Like before, he hadn’t made much eye contact. His shoulders were tense, his features handsome and drawn in. Her eyes kept drifting to his forehead, and the stitches hidden beneath them. She was pretty sure asking how he got them would be extremely rude. It didn’t stop her from wondering. 

Instead, she asked: “When’s the last time you laughed? Really laughed.” 

The question caught him more off guard than the first one. His tentative smile had melted and a crease appeared between his dark brows. “Months ago,” he said, quietly. “I was in Italy.” 

_“Italy?”_ Molly almost dropped her fork. “What was a reformed teacher doing in Italy?” 

A sour expression coated his face. “I was visiting a friend. He can be hilarious when it suits him.” 

“What did you do? I’ve never been out of the country,” She shook her head. “I’m jealous.” 

He shifted again. “I was only there for a few weeks. Saw the inside of an old church most of the time, and I was alone.” 

She took another drink. “What about your friend?” 

Will chuckled humorlessly, “It wasn’t the most pleasant of reunions.” 

“Then why be friends with him?” 

Blue eyes snapped up to hers. “Do we not seek God in our hour of need, even when that need is caused by Him?” 

Molly frowned, confused. “Are you religious?” 

Will shook his head and the tension dropped, “No. Not really. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so morose. You’ve been very kind, Molly.” He looked up again, glasses sliding down his nose. “I’m not good at social interaction. I hope I haven’t scared you off.” 

She scoffed, playfully slapping his knee. “Takes a lot more than a teacher with a dark past to scare me off. Who doesn’t have their demons?” 

“To demons,” Will said, raising his beer. 

Molly raised hers. “To demons.” 

______

“WALTER ANDREW!” Molly yelled from her bathroom. She stared at her reflection and tried to smooth down the wrinkle in the front of her shirt. No dice. 

“WHAT!” Came his voice from down the hall. 

She rolled her eyes. They’d have to have another don’t-sass-your-mother talk, but she wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. A text lit up her phone screen, and something fluttered in her abdomen. Two missed texts, one from Marissa, the mom of a friend of Wally’s, here to pick him up for a sleepover. The other… from Will. 

**_Are we still on for tonight?_ **

Men, she thought. Always right to the point. 

**_Yes,_ ** she replied. **_You’d better bring at least one dog._ **

His response was immediate: **_With the amount of hair on this shirt, I practically am._ **

“Mrs. Dacre and Tyler are here,” She said, hearing Wally’s footsteps. He peeked his head in. 

He looked suspicious. “What are you wearing?” 

“What?” she turned to him. “What’s wrong with this?” 

“No,” he shook his head. “Your face.” 

She looked back at the mirror, “Lipstick?” 

“Where are you going?” Leave it to her kid to be extremely perceptive. 

“Dinner with a friend,” She lied. Half lied. “Now get your butt outside. They’re waiting for you.” 

He raised an eyebrow at her, “Love you, mom.” 

She softened and gave him a quick squeeze. “Love you too, stinker.” 

After she heard the door close and Candle’s barking die down, Molly made her way to the living room. Her eyes caught on the couch and heat rose to her cheeks. 

Two weeks ago Will had been sitting on her couch, eating dinner they’d cooked together. He’d ended up staying until the sun started peaking over the trees, their voices raw from talking. She’d ask him about his childhood in Louisiana and he’d encouraged her to lament about her life on the road before Wally was born. 

He’d given her his number before he left, claiming he felt awake enough to drive to where he was staying. She’d texted him a few hours later, checking up. From that point forward, she was always checking her phone to see if he had anything to tell her: success on his fishing trips, bullshit quotes from books on how to find your purpose, missing his dogs. 

  
A few days ago he’d made a rash decision to drive all the way to Virginia to bring back three of his seven dogs. That night, he had called her. _“I want to go home,”_ he had whispered. _“Before I do, can I see you again?”_

His hopes of finding a permanent home here in Maine had fallen through, Will had confessed to feeling like he was imposing on his friend’s-- an old work colleague named Brian’s-- hospitality for using his cabin. Will was set to move back in a month. 

Molly had bitten the inside of her cheek and whispered into the phone at him, _“Make it a date, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”_

**_Me too,_ ** she remembered to respond now. **_With a dash of Candle drool for some spice._ **

Looking at the clock, she had some time to kill. They had decided on a local place about halfway between the cabin and her home, a quaint seafood restaurant that promised to yield delicious results. 

She flipped on the TV for the sake of something to do. 

_“-- derick Chilton has recently announced that he is leaving the BSHCI to write a book on Hannibal Lecter. Critics are wary, as he himself was framed by Lecter back in 2014. Some sources claim that Chilton is going to dramatize the story, and Agent Crawford is telling people at home to not believe everything they hear about the Chesapeake Ripper.”_

Molly scoffed, about to turn the news off when her phone chimed. 

**_I’m excited to see you, Candle slobber and all._ **

_“Will Graham is once again tasting the limelight after another TattleCrime article was published about his relationship with Lecter, and police--”_

Her head snapped up to the screen at the mention of Graham’s first name. She had forgotten it. There was no picture to accompany it, just two newscasters sitting at a transparent desk. Molly’s eyes looked back at Will’s text, and back up at the TV. 

Will had forgotten to mention his last name. She hadn’t said hers either, that she remembered. It was probably some fucked up coincidence. 

She opened up the search bar on her phone and googled Will Graham. 

Thousands of results popped up immediately. Police reports, TattleCrime, and floods of photos. The top picture being the mugshot Molly must have seen a dozen times. His hair was longer and wild, his eyes were pale and crazed, and there was no scar across his forehead, but it was Will. Her heart began to thump in her chest, her blood running slow and cold. She couldn’t stop looking, pictures of him at crime scenes with blurred out bodies, lying in a hospital bed nearly naked with stitching across his bare stomach, and of course, standing next to Hannibal fucking Lecter. 

Had they been friends? Worked together? She knew they were linked, where Lecter’s name was mentioned Graham’s--Will’s--- usually followed. Molly clicked on the police reports, Will’s arrest records. 

He had been a teacher, he hadn’t lied about that, forensics at the fucking FBI academy. Occasionally pulled in for field work when there was word of any type of prolific serial killer. Names of the dead and their killers fell under Will’s; he was exceptional. Had understood and helped capture a handful of dangerous and horrific people. Until he himself was apprehended. And released. 

On a whim, Molly clicked on TattleCrime. The newest article had been posted only six hours ago, titled ‘Murder Husbands: Honeymoon or Heartbreak?’ 

Underneath it was a picture of Hannibal Lecter’s recognizably striking profile, his hand on Will’s shoulder, heads turned towards each other. They could have been sharing a joke, or a secret. 

_It was no secret that Dr. Lecter and FBI very-special not-so-agent Will Graham always had a very unconventional relationship. Graham was his patient for a little under a year before his arrest, and in that time the two of them found a surrogate murder-daughter to manipulate, spent long after hours in Lecter’s office, and solved crimes together. Not your typical doctor/patient relationship, readers should think._

Last _spring, Hannibal Lecter left one dead and three severely wounded in his home: among them, Will Graham himself. (_ _link: Chesapeake Ripper is Your Local Psychiatrist?)_ _Tail between his legs, our Ripper vanished into thin air. He now had a name and a face._

_Despite Jack Crawford’s best efforts, the FBI just couldn’t find their lost psychiatrist! Where they were looking, we certainly don’t know, reader. Probably chasing their own blood-soaked tail._

_When lo and behold, Will Graham decides to take a little trip to Italy, his gutted tummy sewed up and forgiven. Who should he find there? His runaway lover_

Molly stopped reading. It was too much, this was all too much. 

Who was the man that drew up plans for a dog house in the middle of Home Depot, just because she needed advice? Where was the man who blushed in his sock feet when she smiled at him? Who sat on her couch and made her laugh and told her ridiculous stories about fishing and greasy, southern food? His trip to Italy, his unkind friend, his I’m-lost-and-trying-to-figure-out-my-purpose-in-life stubble. 

He'd been here, in her home, sitting where her son sat. Inches away from her, not meeting her eyes. 

**_I’m excited to see you, Candle slobber and all._** Her phone blinked innocently up at her. 

  
  



	2. It's Not a Suit, or a Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve been talking to Hannibal,” He said, flippantly. “You should stop doing that.” 
> 
> “You should stop thinking about him,” Abigail retorted. “Like you said you would.” 

Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date. 

Margot Verger hardly counted; their quick and lonely night in his dog hair covered bed while his head was occupied with thoughts of other people in other beds, and no doubt she, too, was thinking of softer skin and longer hair while her fingers reached out to touch him-- was ultimately a very poor decision at best, and at worst a failed attempt at saving Margot’s place in the Verger will. 

Alana didn’t count either; they’d been alone in a room together at most three times, one of those was a quick and regrettably awkward kiss prior to her immediate rejection.  _ “You’re not stable,”  _ she’d said, or said something to that effect. She had sounded so sincere. It had been true, then, he wasn’t stable. He heard the cries of animals that weren’t there, lost time and woke up barefoot and miles away from home most nights, and felt the strangled, giddy laughter of Garret Jacob Hobbs’  _ “See?”  _ every time he closed his damn eyes. 

(Riveting side effects of having your brain on fire. Thank you, encephalitis!) 

See? Of course he fucking saw. He saw and he tasted and he delighted. 

The specialists at the BSHCI told him during his incarceration that his brain would take several months to cool down and heal, and they seemed to be under the impression that staring at iron bars for twenty four goddamn hours a day was a healthy environment to let his brain  _ cool.  _ Once he healed, they said, it would be extremely unlikely for him to develop the virus again. He had check-ups biannually, several of which he’d missed and made no effort to reschedule. It was extremely tedious to have to explain that yes, he still hallucinated, but only the normal amount, and he hadn’t lost time again, so that meant he was probably fine. 

Yeah, they’d lock him away for sure. 

Abigail's eyes stared at him in the mirror, like she was standing behind him. Will was just enough in his right mind to know that she wasn’t really there, but just enough in the wrong one to carry on a conversation. 

“How do you like this one?” He asked her, holding up two ties against his half buttoned shirt. 

She frowned, hand curling around her neck like she did when she was uncomfortable. Even in his imagination she still had a scar bisecting half of her throat, her last gift from her biological father. “It’s fine. They’re fine.” 

He turned around to look at her, raising one eyebrow in what he hoped was a paternal tell-me-what’s-going-on face. He’d been practicing it. 

Abigail bit her lip. “You’re not really a tie kinda guy, Will.” She only ever called him dad when he got too caught up in it, and he had to remain as calm and unaffected as possible before he saw Molly. 

“I could be,” he offered. “I’m my own person again. Maybe I’ll start wearing ties and shoes that fit right.” 

She sighed and met his gaze. “You’re putting on a person suit. If you want that suit to be a man who wears ties and goes on dates, then fine. But that person isn’t Will Graham.” 

“You’ve been talking to Hannibal,” He said, flippantly. “You should stop doing that.” 

“You should stop thinking about him,” Abigail retorted. “Like you said you would.” 

It was Will’s turn to sigh, not letting thoughts linger and accumulate. He brought his hands to her shoulders and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before he could stop himself. Back in Italy, Abigail had argued on Hannibal’s behalf, urging Will to find him and stay with him. Live the life Hannibal had dreamed up for them over long aching nights of wine and blood. 

These days, she admonished all mention of him-- while, often, ironically quoting the poetic and ridiculous things he’d whisper to Will during their sessions. 

His mind was an appalling and sardonic thing. 

“Maybe no tie,” Will said, letting them drop to the tile floor. “Should I wear my green jacket for old times sake?” 

“Are you reinventing yourself?” Her tone was classic teenage judgement. He gave her a disapproving glance. 

He shifted back towards the mirror and swept the hair off his forehead for a moment. “No,” he said. “Merely allowing myself to be someone I haven’t been in a while.” 

Abigail smiled at him. “You’re being honest with me. I thought it scared you to think in those terms.” 

His eyes caught on the red puckered scar across his brow. The stitches had been removed a few days prior, and it felt as raw as ever. He let his curls fall over it, drawing the curtain to a close. 

“It's not a suit, or a mask,” Will countered. “Whatever you two believe. This is me. Perhaps a different side, one Hannibal doesn’t encourage. He’s selfish like that, Abigail. He doesn’t let us be anyone other than the version he likes.” 

“And what version is that? The one who killed Randall Tier and liked it?” 

He glared at her through the glass. “And what about you? His favorite version of you was the one who gladly lured prey in for dinner.” It was an unkind thing to say. He wouldn’t have said it to the real Abigail, probably. He wasn’t sure he’d meant it. “I thought you said not to think about him.” 

“I did,” This Abigail wasn’t hurt by his words. This Abigail didn’t feel at all. “But you’re going to anyway. And you should remember him correctly: the version he likes best is your true nature.” 

Will coughs up a dry, humorless laugh. “My  _ true nature _ , Abigail? That’s cheap, even for Hannibal. Work on your gaslighting and make it believable.” 

His phone buzzed in his pocket then. He slipped it out and checked the ID quickly before letting it ring out. When he looked up, Abigail was gone. 

She didn’t hurt. But by proxy, Will certainly did. His own works sunk back into him, like they always did, and his bones ached with the effort of absorbing them.  _ This, _ he thought,  _ is why people saw shrinks in the first place. Who has the capacity to handle this alone?  _

There was no way in hell Will was ever going to another therapy session again. He’d had his fair share-- plus second helpings and dessert-- of people trying, and failing to understand him. 

(Course, there was Doctor Hannibal Lecter: who’d understood him better than anyone, and abused it in every goddamn possible way.) 

His phone rang again and this time he didn’t check to see who it was. He knew. Jack hadn’t stopped calling him for weeks now. Will didn’t know what else Jack had left to say-- he’d be a fool if he thought asking Will to come back to the field would do any good. If he was calling about Italy, or his time at the Verger mansion, Will didn’t have an explanation or story that would satisfy his questions.  _ “Why?”  _ Jack had asked him, over and over and over until the word lost all meaning to his ears. He didn’t stop asking until all the snow had fallen and melted and the Chesapeake Ripper was secured in a straitjacket.  _ “Why would he surrender?”  _

_ “Why?”  _ Will had answered.  _ “Because he was bored.”  _

That lie was becoming so easy to say, Will almost believed it. 

His phone buzzed, short, a text. It was Molly. Something in his resolve softened, and he typed a reply back to her quickly-- eager. Tonight would be good. He would smile and ask about her son and her dog and her sink, and she would laugh at him in her kind, raspy and judgement-free way. 

Then, it rang a third time and  _ oh, Will was going to kill him--  _

“What?” He barked into the speaker. “What could you  _ possibly  _ still need from me?” 

“Will?” That was not Jack Crawford’s voice. “Should I call later?” 

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, embarrassment weighing heavy on his chest. “No, I’ve got time. I’m sorry. I thought you were Jack.” 

Alana hummed politely on the other end. “Ah. That explains it. How are you?” 

Will scoffed, “We’re past that, I think. You don’t have to play nice with me.” 

“You’re right. I’m calling because Frederick is leaving the BSHCI. He’s stepping down as administrator.” 

He smirked, though she couldn’t see it. “To write his great American novel. Yes, I’d heard that. Are you warning me that I’ll be interviewed?”

That made Alana huff a laugh. “I doubt anyone who has any truth will be interviewed. But no, I called because I’m taking his position.” 

Faltering a moment, Will considered her words. “They offered it to you?” 

“No,” her voice was without apology. “I volunteered.” 

“Alana--” 

She cut him off immediately. “I know what you’re thinking. I own, personally, every key that separates him from the outside world: which puts me on his takeout order, hm?” 

“As entertaining as the thought of him eating takeout is, yes. I think he has planned your murder by now.” 

“I’m not stupid, Will.” Alana’s voice had sharped over the years. “He’s got… privileges. Things to keep him occupied. Books, charcol, letters.” 

“Who would write to Hannibal Lecter?” 

There was a pregnant pause between them. “Who indeed?” 

“Surely you don’t think  _ I’m  _ going to write to him?” 

“I don’t know, Will. He’s going to write to you, or use his one call a month to contact you.  _ Surely you _ know that.” 

Something sharp and deep caught in his chest, pulsing under his skin. He had told Hannibal not to reach out to him, had ordered that he rot in prison without him. Will wondered for not the first time if Hannibal had been playing him, too. He wanted to scream at Alana, at Jack, at God and the Devil for ever aligning black stars to cross for him and his own fairy tale monster. What he said was: “You’re letting Hannibal call people? I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I think giving a serial killer access to the outside world is probably not the smartest decision on your part. I thought you knew him better than that.” 

“It is because I know him that I allow it,” Her voice was a knife again, the blade nicking his stubble. “I’d rather not live under false pretenses of Hannibal’s abilities. If we didn’t allow him access, he’d worm his way into having it. This way, he gets what he wants, during the light of day, where I can see and listen. He gets exactly fifteen minutes on a monitored line on the last day of the month.” 

He let that sink in. “What makes you so sure he’s going to call me? Or write to me.” 

“He has spoken of little else since his incarceration. Does that scare you?” 

“Yes.” It was a half truth. 

“And,” she continued. “I’m holding his letter now.”

A wave of second hand embarrassment flooded and threatened to drown him. “What does it say?” 

“I don’t think it would be wise for you to let this correspondence happen, for your sake. You deserve to move on. I won’t send the letters, if you don’t want to read them.” 

His answer was too quick. “No. No, he’s smart. He’ll know that’s the reason I’m not responding. It’ll give him hope. Send them. Let him call me. I won’t read and I won’t answer. He needs to know I don’t care.” 

Will could almost see the way Alana was pursing her lips. 

“I think you’re making a mistake.” 

“I think you’re making a worse one,” He didn’t try to hold back his bite. Hannibal would have relished this. “You know he’s not going to be satisfied in his cage for long, and he’s going to feast on the master who jingles his keys.” 

Alana’s voice was dangerous. “We know  _ very  _ well who his master is. Make sure you don’t write him back.” 

“Believe me,” he said between his teeth. “I don’t intend on ever opening the letter in the first place.” 

There wasn’t much to say after that. Alana tried to soften, tried to kindle whatever tenderness had been between them before (before Hannibal, before the first tender string of his sanity had snapped, before, before, before) but Will was far too gone for it. He inquired after his dogs-- she and Margot (a strange but somehow perfect match he hadn’t been prepared to comprehend) had agreed to look after the ones he couldn’t take with him. The Verger lands sure had enough room to run. They were fine, she said, they ate and slept and ran. He grumbled a goodbye and hung up. 

He met his eyes in the mirror and saw russet. 

Will blinked quickly. His own blue stared back. He let out a shaky, gulping breath before turning the cold knob of the sink and splashing water into his face. Some of the water sprayed and dripped onto his shirt, but he disregarded it. It would dry before he got to the restaurant. 

He straightened and finished buttoning the dark blue fabric. Beverly always said it brought out his eyes. ( _ Don’t think of Beverly,  _ he reminded himself.) 

Something whined outside the bathroom door. Will took one last look at himself-- he wasn’t bad, almost looked stable-- and opened it. Winston was sitting on his haunches, staring up at Will like he’d been listening to the call. 

It stung him every time he remembered his whole pack wasn’t here. Will was immensely grateful to Brian Zeller for letting him use his get-away cabin, and didn’t want to drown it in dog fur.

_ (“What?”  _ Zeller had grumbled when Price gave him that look.  _ “We never know when we’re going to have to hide from some vengeful serial killer.”  _

_ “Right,”  _ Price had said, rolling his eyes.  _ “Because you lead such a daring and heroic life, incarcerated killers are breaking out just to put a bullet through your chest.”  _

Then, they’d shared a look that was so private Will felt wrong for having seen it.) 

Hannibal would never shoot him. It was tasteless and vulgar-- the common man’s judgement day. 

And a gun wasn’t intimate enough. 

Will shook his head and let his thoughts drift back to his dogs. He missed them, all of them, and had even gotten into the bad habit of letting the ones he’d brought here curl up beside him in bed. 

Winston nosed at his hand and he obliged, scratching his head tenderly. He checked his phone, no response from Molly. She was most likely driving, which meant  _ he _ should be driving. With one last pet, he exited the bathroom, checked the food and water bowls for Tetra, Buster, and Winston, locked up the cabin and marched to his car. 

The drive was straightforward; twisty and woodsy (the way he liked it) but direct. The restaurant was on the side of a lake, the water was black glass against the darkening sky. He made his way inside, and with a brief explanation to the hostess, was brought to a small table against the window. Nerves licked his stomach. Which was ridiculous, he was a grown man, not a fourteen year old virgin. 

He checked his watch, and realized that he’d been at least five minutes late. This made Molly fifteen minutes late now… which was fine. She was also a normal adult who was probably caught up with normal adult things. She was probably… sure. Whatever it was, it was fine. 

Sometime between being gutted and having his head almost sliced open, Will had gotten dependent. 

_ You’re only human, Will,  _ a gentle, accented voice whispered in his ear.  _ Don’t deny yourself the need of another. _

_ Haha,  _ Will made sure to say in his mind.  _ Fuck off.  _

_ I find that to be discourteous.  _

_ Oh hush up, doctor. You know our codependency just as profoundly as I pretend not to.  _

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and Will snapped his head up to look. 

Molly stood there in front of him, looking prettier than he’d ever seen anyone look before. Her blonde hair was curled, slightly, brushing the tops of her shoulders. She wore dark jeans and a fitted violet blouse. Her lips were pink. He felt his cheeks flush.

“Hi,” Will said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “You look…” 

Her brow creased. 

“Beautiful,” he tried. “Thank you for coming.” Because he had no idea what he was supposed to say to her. A blurry, far away memory of his late father was treading the waters of his mind, reminding him to walk his date to the door. 

Molly sat down across from him, lips pressed in a thin line. She was stiff. Guarded. Wary of him. 

The golden fluorescent light above them bore too bright and he looked down his hands on the table, feeling the glossed wood under the pads of his fingers. Every instinct screamed at him to cower and run. Oh. It occurred to him, then, in the lion’s den, why he hadn’t actually gone on a date in years. 

“How are you?” He asked, the same time Molly hissed, “I saw you on TV.” 

_________

Molly’s knuckles were sharp and white from her grip on the steering wheel. She’d parked about five minutes ago (six-- now, the clock on her dashboard told her) and hadn’t yet mustered the insanity to walk inside. 

To face Will Graham. 

He was a paradox in her mind, the two sides of him that she was now aware of splitting his face in two. 

Sweet, dog-loving Will. The gentle, kind man who could hardly meet her gaze over his glasses without stuttering. His sturdy, rough hands were calm and sure as he seared the stake on her stove. His body curled in and held as he sat beside her on her couch, whispering in the soft glow of twilight stories of Louisiana summers. Will, a teacher who was tired and wanted to change his life. 

And the man on her TV. His wild eyes and his mug shot. His arm pressed against Hannibal Lecter’s in the pictures of crime tabloids. His police records of instability and his  _ genius and unparalleled  _ work for the FBI. 

She hadn’t had much time to read all of it-- if there was more, which she could guess there was-- before she was going to be late. Molly almost laughed at herself, considering still going. 

But the memory of his soft, genuine voice echoed in her ears.  _ “To demons.”  _

He had looked so tired, so tangible, so knowable there that she almost kissed him. 

The said psychopaths were charming, didn’t they? 

Molly came to demand answers. To shame him, to yell at him. To tell him to lose her number and never think about her again. In order to do that, she’d actually have to exit the car. 

She sighed; it resonated deep and heavy in her chest. Fear, or something akin to it, simmered in her belly. 

Fuck it. 

She switched off her headlights and opened the car door. 

The hostess informed her that he had been waiting, and gestured over to the table. 

Will Graham, in the flesh. 

He was sitting alone at a small table, wearing a blue button up that probably looked gorgeous on him. She’d only ever seen him in flannels and thick coats, and even then his attractiveness had not gone missed. Molly didn’t have the energy to focus on that now. Will hadn’t noticed her, his hands moved against the table as he stared out the window, lost deep in thought. 

_ Run.  _

He turned then, like he heard her, and his mouth parted. 

  
  
“Hi,” Will said, his voice quiet and raw. “You look…” she watched him swallow thickly as his glasses-less eyes drank her in. “Beautiful.” 

She wanted to slap him. Instead, she sat down. 

“How are you?” he asked, the same moment she said, “I saw you on TV.” 

Molly watched confusion flash across his expression, then abrupt understanding. His jaw worked as his fingers continued to pressed against the wood. “Don’t they know? I’m old news by now.” Will’s voice was filled with bitterness. The stitches were gone from his forehead. 

“You didn’t tell me,” She said. “You didn’t tell me about  _ prison.  _ Or that you worked for the FBI. That you’re friends with  _ Hannibal Lecter _ .” 

He winced, visibly, at the name. “He is not my friend. I was a teacher, like I told you. A criminal profiling course at the academy. I was called in by the FBI to consult on extreme cases.” 

Molly was seething. He was so kind now, offering these details so easily like he never hid them in the first place. “And prison?” 

“If you had the news on, you know they caught the real killer.” 

“Lecter.” 

He winced again, but nodded. 

“I don’t even know who you are, Will.” Molly said. “I let you into my home, where  _ my son _ lives. I didn’t ask-- but you didn’t offer.” 

Will closed his eyes and released a puff of air from his nose. He reopened his eyes and met her gaze. “Of course. I’m sorry, Molly. I never wanted--” he shook his head, overcome. “For the last two years, my life has revolved around death and destruction. I have been framed and put in prison. I had encephalitis that went months untreated. Once… Lecter was apprehended, I moved here. To get away. You are the first person I’ve spoken to, really spoken to, who didn’t look at me like I was something to be pitied-- or a dangerous oddity that needed a leash. I am just a man to you. I’d forgotten what it was like to be a normal person. I’m sorry I kept things from you.” 

His words hit her like a bullet. “Thank you,” She mustered. “I don’t know the full story. But I remembered when you were-- framed. I remembered your mugshot. I know that Lecter framed a lot of people. I just got scared. I don’t know you.” 

“I don’t know you, either.” Will offered her a small smile, the kind where half of his pink mouth curled up and shocked her insides. “I’d like to get to know you. If… it doesn’t have to be a date. I won’t come to your house. Tell me your boundaries and I swear I won’t cross them. But I could use… a friend.” 

Molly timidly reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “Me too.”

________________

Days bled into weeks, and still, Will hadn’t moved back to Wolf Trap. 

The more he spent in Maine the less he felt inclined to leave. The cool almost-spring air was hearty and welcome. Winston, Buster, and Tetra loved it too. He took them on long, frosty hikes in the trees that lasted hours. He packed himself a sandwich and water, plus some snacks for his small pack, and left at dawn. 

Checks kept rolling in. Payment for his time at the FBI plus pity money; Jack or Alana was trying to repay whatever they thought they’d taken from him. The part of him that grew up poor with his blue collar father’s voice in his ears  _ “Don’t take people’s pity. Don’t let them buy you, no matter how hungry you get.”  _ wanted to throw it back in their face, spit on it, or set it on fire. The part of him that remembered medical bills, dog food, and the very thought of returning to teaching-- back in  _ that  _ world-- made him kiss the envelopes and cash it immediately. He could feel guilty about other things, anyway. 

He would get a job. There was a dog shelter not far from where he was staying. He’d already started paying Zeller rent, to ease his guilt, and he wouldn’t mind picking up shifts there. It felt juvenile to want to kneel on a cement floor and wash strays, but Will had never really had a childhood, and nothing else sounded appealing. 

Molly called him at least twice a week. They spoke for hours, sometimes meeting in small public places. They talked of dogs and trees and one time he got so heated about the correct way to bait a hook she laughed so hard, her beer came out her nose. He’d blushed. She was funny, and kind, and didn’t look sorry for him, even a little. Sometimes, when he got silent, she reached across the wide space between them and laced her fingers with his. It was the most intimately someone had touched him since a bullet was removed from his shoulder. 

Will tinkered with old pipes and boat parts, cleansing himself in the dark grease that coated his tools and his hands. If he worked late into the night, it looked like blood. 

He mostly worked in the afternoon. 

Molly called him about fifteen minutes ago. “And the hose-- just starts spraying  _ everywhere, _ ” she was snorting at the end of sentences, gasping for air, and it soothed Will’s ears. “It’s drenched me and Wally, and we’re chasing after her like a greased pig. By the time we catch her, we’re all covered in mud.” 

In spite of himself, Will was laughing. “That’s what you get for trying to hose a dog down and expect them to get clean.” 

“She’s huge, Will! There’s no room in our shower for her. Unless you can train her to stand on her hind legs. Can you do that? Jesus, I bet you have.” 

Will glanced over at Winston, who was being aggressively licked by Buster. They would need a bath soon. “No. Back in Wolf Trap I had a metal tub that I’d take turns washing them in.” 

“Why am I not surprised? Nothing for Will Graham, nothing but luxury for Will Graham’s pack.” 

His chest felt warm and tight. 

Molly let his pause breathe between them before speaking again, something in her tone shifted. “Wally has a soccer game this Saturday. Don’t know if you’re a sports kind of guy, but the invitations there if you want. I don’t really– I’d like it if you came.” 

He swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come. Let me mark it down.” Will found the calendar he’d bought himself a few weeks back. It hardly had anything written on it, but something about its existence collecting dust on the counter eased him. “Saturday–“

“The first.” She finished. “I can text you the address.” 

Will’s blood ran cold. The first. The first of the new month. 

Alana’s warning swam forward from the back of his mind, crashing in whitecaps. 

“Will?” 

_ Hannibal.  _

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Please.” 

“Great. Thank you so much, you’re saving me from having to fraternize with the enemy moms.”

“Could we–“ Will cut in. “Would you be interested in a picnic the day before?” 

Molly sighed. “I wish. I have work. Picnic after the game? We can get ice cream if Wally wins. Or loses. It looks like it’ll be a hot day. Woohoo, spring.”

He closed his eyes. “Sure. Sounds nice.” 

“Fan-- shit, CANDLE! Sorry, Will, Candle got into the trash again. I’ll text you the address. See you Saturday.” 

“See you.” And ended the call. 

Will stared at the dark screen in his hand. Maybe Alana would go back on her word and refuse to let Hannibal call him. All of his mail, except the checks and bills, he still had sent to Wolf Trap. An excuse to ignore life for a little while longer. But it also meant he didn’t know if Alana had forwarded Hannibal’s letter. 

Four months. 

He shook the thought from his head. No use wasting energy fretting about something that only might happen. 

That sounded, with a shock to Will, like something his father would have said. And then he thought of Wally, soccer, and ice cream. And Molly. 

Will reached out and called for Winston, who came to him immediately. He rubbed his hands over his silky ears and let himself surrender to the things of the present. The feel of the fur against his palm, the carpet beneath his bare feet, the sound of the fridge’s hum. 

_________

In his dream he saw Abigail. 

She looked lovely; donning a white coat and matching hat. They were extravagant, no doubt costly, and unlike anything she had ever worn while she was alive. She stood on the ancient floor of the Norman Chapel, skeleton with clasped hands beneath her leather shoes. 

They were alone, white sunlight streaming in from the old slit windows. A single candle was lit. 

Abigail turned to him and smiled.  _ “Dad.”  _

Will stepped forward. 

Her throat was sliced open, red spilling over the white coat and painted skeleton. She wailed, her arms straining to reach him, fingers shaking with tension, clawing at the air. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving glistening tracks in the splatter of blood on her face. 

Suddenly he was in Wolf Trap. It was snowing. 

Hannibal was on his knees, hands behind his head. There were no sirens this time. There was no Jack. 

Will had his hands around Hannibal’s throat, bruising his windpipe, crushing him beneath his thumbs. They tumbled, and Will was on top of him, throwing a punch into Hannibal’s jaw, only hitting harder when he heard a  _ crack.  _

Blood poured from Hannibal’s nose, staining the snow. It reminded him of Abigail's coat, it reminded him of Abigail, it reminded him that she was dead and it was Hannibal’s fault. 

Hannibal was grinning up at him, his eyes dark and warm, crinkling at the corners in amusement. 

The blood melted into his mouth, shining between his teeth and his nightmarish smile. Hannibal reached up and caressed Will’s jaw, his hands two skeleton bones, cold and hollow. His finger’s laced and clasped behind Will’s head, pulling him in and pressing his crimson mouth to Will’s scream.

Will bolted awake. 

His shirt stuck to him, sweat cooling and chilling in the night air. It was still dark outside; the digital clock on the bedside table read three-thirty a.m. 

Trembling, he sat up. Buster and Tetra lay sleeping, curled at the foot of the bed; he must not have yelled in his sleep this time. Only Winston's eyes glowed, worried, his snout cocked to one side. Will rolled on his right ribs and hip, and scratched at his ears. 

He closed his eyes and let the warmth and weight of Winston's fur consume the squall between his temples; waves crashed, un-thought abstractions ebbing and inundating into a headache. They sat there, together, breathing the same air between them, a breath in, a sigh out. Daubs of sweat dried cold on his chest and in the hollows of his neck. 

Eventually, his six a.m. alarm rang out, and he pressed the clock to silence it. Tetra stirred, huffing, and meandering to the door. She was old enough not to whine, sitting back on her haunches and looking back at him with sad, brown eyes. He swallowed dry bile, his tongue parched and felt like sandpaper in his mouth. It took great effort to swing his legs over the side and get up, but he did it, and slid a wool sweater over his head. God, he needed a shower. 

Will opened the bedroom door, and Tetra pattered down the hall to the sliding glass. He opened that for her too, Winston trailing after her slowly, like he was afraid Will would vanish if he looked away. He understood Winston’s caution.

His stomach gnawed on nothing, aching and growling. Quickly, he let the dogs back in and made a pot of steaming coffee. He drank it in two scorching gulps, then poured himself another, this time letting the taste sizzle on his burnt tongue. Buster grumbled awake and yipped at Will’s ankles, claws scratching little white lines into his calves. He continued to nurse his mug, letting the warmth consume him from the inside out. His disloyal stomach snarled again, but his throat contracted at the thought of swallowing anything solid. 

Shower. 

He turned the brass knob all the way to hot, not caring to feel it on his hand before stepping under the spray. It was a cheap spout, only allowing a relatively weak sprinkling tumble over his head and shoulders. Steam curled around him in the confined space, trapped between the wall and the curtain. Will inhaled it, drunk on it, the caffeine from the coffee crackling under his skin. 

It was in moments like this, covered in steam and aching hot water, early in the dark twilight of the morning, that he let himself let go. 

There was no one to perform for, to duck his head from, no one to convince. Cloaked by water and the curtain, in a house at the end of the world.

He thought about drowning. He thought about hands, precise and stalwart, pressing his shoulders down beneath the surface tension. Not a shove, there was no forceful act of God in these palms. Just elementary exhortation. 

_ Give in to myself,  _ Will realized.  _ Let you kill me. Let myself enjoy it.  _

His cock twitched.

Deliberately, he did not reach for it. Will let his eyes close, and broke every self-bestowed law he’d put in place and conjured Hannibal up in his mind. 

He stood in front of Will, there, in the shower. He wore the black knit turtleneck that he had in Italy– Will had never seen him naked; and while it wasn’t hard to imagine graying chest hair and the taunt muscles of his shoulders, it felt… wrong to imagine him in a state of undress. Will had never seen him look anything less than impeccable, always wearing thick, expensive suits and throat cutting silks. Always hidden, always tucked away. Wrapped up. It was a way to demonstrate his power, his dominance, his design. Nothing could cut through  _ that  _ armor, certainly not Will, not even his empathetic inventiveness.

Will tilted his jaw up, water dripped down his nose and cheeks like boiling tears. His eyes— his real ones were shut tight— bore into Hannibal’s, their color like chilled Merlot, the impassive sheen easily the light that reflected in the Cabernet glass. Anger consumed him as flashes of his nightmare rose to the surface of the waters in his head; Hannibal’s bloody mouth and Abigail’s bloody throat. Will wanted to take Hannibal’s face in his hands and crush, fold and press in. 

Before he could move, Hannibal’s hand— Herculean— grasped his throat. His fingers were long and calloused, due to the harpsichord, being a surgeon, or to murder, Will couldn’t say. But he could feel the bump and scratch of them against the pounding veins in his neck. Blood rushed to his ears and crashed around him, making him stumble. Hannibal’s grip offered little movement, middle finger pressing into the vulnerable flesh where neck met jaw. 

Will choked out a breath, water filling his gasping mouth. He spat it out, aiming for Hannibal. It landed somewhere in the fabric of his shirt, disappearing like smoke into him. No damage done. 

He could have wept. He felt boneless and debilitated by the hand around his throat. Hannibal’s lips curled and twisted, a small feat, his open relish at Will’s suffering. It was better, like that, his delight at his torment. Better than the nearly sympathetic simulate of emotion, like the tears he shed after gutting Will, and leaving him to rot on the floor of his kitchen. Better to  _ see  _ Hannibal in his ugly, retched, painful display, then to delude himself with the notion of kindness or love. 

The smile on his abdomen ached at its remembrance, a cold thing against the hot of the steam and water. Hannibal tilted his head, calculating. With a knowing tsk, he brought his other hand to Will’s scar, tracing his pointer finger along the white line. 

Will sucked in and squirmed, wanting to protest, wanting to beg. 

He was painfully hard.

His cock throbbed, red and hot between them, below the hand on his stomach. Hannibal’s caresses continued, nearly grazing the head of his cock in carelessness— no, it was deliberate. Everything was executed prior, known and calculated for. Hannibal was curious. 

Shadows and steam cast sharp angles onto Hannibal’s features, his stark cheekbones handsome like the devil, his lips were crimson with flush. In his gaze, nothing but mild amusement. 

Will could have screamed. 

His grasp was beginning to bruise, palm pressing against his Adam’s apple. He might have made a noise, somewhere between a sob and a curse, but something flashed in his monster’s eyes, dark and empty. 

Hannibal’s fingers wrapped around his cock, altogether searing and contusing. Will felt no relief, the heat from his hand branded Will, drove him to the brink. 

He squeezed, once, twice. Will felt himself fill out in Hannibal's grip. His fingers began to stroke the length of him, bruising touches that slipped beneath the spray. 

The rhythm he set was lethal: long, drawn out strokes bled into rapid flicks of his wrist, impelling him to stumble off the bluff— and then squeezing the base of him every time his foot slipped over the edge, catching him before pleasure overcame the pain. 

Hannibal relaxed his hold on Will’s neck, only slightly, and let the pad of his thumb brush the edge of Will’s jaw. He pulled on Will’s bottom lip, forcing his mouth open, and swiping his finger across his bottom teeth and the tip of his tongue. Will’s mind went numb, and he bit down hard. Hannibal didn’t jerk away, waiting patiently for Will to let go. He did, after a minute. 

Hannibal’s hand moved to cup the back of his head; surgical, lethal fingers entwining in Will’s wet curls. Hannibal gave them a tug, and the shock of it whiplash burned his neck and bared his throat. In tandem, the hand on Will’s cock tightened and worked him faster. It was persecution. 

Heat pooled in his stomach, directly below the cold sting of his scar. It was a living thing inside him, writhing and titillating and all consuming, eating and his raw insides and begging for release. Hannibal’s hand showed him no kindness, his movements rough and abusive. Will’s eyes were trained on the dull light above the shower, steam curling around it like silk. Hannibal’s thumb swiped over the wet head of his cock. 

“Please,” Will said. 

Hannibal pulled him forward, Will’s forehead pressed to the solid meat of his shoulder. It reminded him of something vicious, and some part of him was conscious enough to be struck with a pang of regret. This angle forced Hannibal’s grasp to loosen and adjust, the brief separation causing Will to howl, biting the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. He picked up again, wantonly stroking Will in the way he liked it best, compressing a forefinger against the vein of the underside. Will brought a hand up and clung to Hannibal’s side. He felt Hannibal’s breath on the shell of his ear. 

He came.

A wave of alleviation shuddered through him; stripes of white hot come staining… his own hand. And the title wall. 

His palm gripped at the cold title, tips of his fingers rubbed raw. His vision blurred and he stumbled forward, releasing his now flaccid cock and pressing it against the wall to steady himself. 

When he came to, he realized the water had gone cold. 

Will shivered, hair sticking up on head. Wrapping arms around himself, he found his own thumb slick with saliva, and the back of his head throbbed. 

Quickly, he grabbed the bar of soap and lathered it in his hands, washing his body and hair in one fell swoop. The pounding in his chest slowly palliated as the sinking feeling of unease rose up and festered under his skin. 

_ La petite mort,  _ he jeered. 

He felt dead. 

Like some part of him had snapped, or been sliced out. A limb, a finger. An organ. It’s wound bled and bubbled and blistered in faux healing, only to reopen in a vicious cycle of violence. Nothing, he knew, would appease it. No bandage or stitch could close it. 

Well, there was one. But that would make metaphorical bleeding most certainly literal. 

He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, drying himself off unceremoniously. 

He was quick to slip on a pair of (probably) clean boxers and a new shirt, a green sweater Molly had mentioned liking. Then immediately took it off, and buttoned up a thick flannel about halfway. In a moment of hysteria, he slipped on his old glasses. His reflection stared back at him, innocently, with wide eyes and half a scowl.  _ “Dr. Lecter,”  _ he could imagine himself saying.  _ “I’m here for my appointment.”  _

That too, filled him with a queer sort of horror and he shut the glasses in the drawer beside the bed. 

Hours crept by, like centuries, stuck in golden slow motion as he cooked, tinkered, and washed his sheets. Around mid afternoon he poured himself a finger, then two, of amber whisky in Zeller’s surprisingly nice tumbler. The glass stayed refilled. 

Dread weighed heavy in his toes, licking up his legs and clamped down on his heart. He forced his mind to remain blank, recalling the clear waters of the lake and wading in till it reached the tops of his thighs. If the dogs noticed his unease, they were kind about it, licking his fingers when he stayed still too long, and yapping for food when he missed their normal dinner time. 

His phone had stayed silent, only buzzing once at a text from Molly, asking how his day had been. He hadn’t answered. 

Will sat down in the living room, tumbler leaving condensation on his thigh. The clear bottle of whiskey was half-drunk, and sitting on the table beside him. His ears hummed and his head swam, fingers light. The clock read 7:28.

Maybe he couldn’t call. 

Will let his eyes close, swallowing the last swig of liquor in his glass. It bit at his burnt tongue. 

His phone rang. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it, folks. tune in next week for prison husband therapy and drunk Will! 
> 
> should I write in Hannibal's pov at some point? I have so many ideas for how he spent time/coped at the BSHCI but I don't know if anyone could truly master the 'hot darkness of hannibal lecter's mind"


	3. Too Painful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will cocked his head, settling into the chair.“You are caught because you wanted to be caught. I know better than anyone that you do things for your amusement only.”
> 
> “And what of your amusement?” 
> 
> “Are they not the same?” His words came slurred, dripping in deficiency. Hannibal called up a defense, a stitch in his suit. 

The chocolate was cheap. 

He inhaled deeply, the scent of water and life filled his lungs. Light reflected off the canal and up to where he sat on the cramped balcony, his head tipped back in relaxing pleasure. He heard the gondola’s rhythmic splash and the bustle of Italian voices. A motorbike purred somewhere down the cobblestone road. 

The only thing keeping him from fully submerging into the memory was the taste of the chocolate; the opened box sitting on the balcony’s edge in his mind, and on the table they’d given him in reality. 

It was American, clearly, too sweet and thin. He preferred chocolate to be paired with something tart, or bitter, the relief of the sugar a balm with the otherwise painful flavors that would accompany it. However, something constantly reminded him in Dr. Du Maurier’s voice, beggars could not be choosers. 

And Hannibal was… well. He certainly wasn’t in a position to turn down a box of chocolates. 

“... quote from you. Maybe even put it on the cover.” Frederick Chilton’s voice grated against the rushing canal and fractured the corners of the allusion. 

Hannibal let his fingers dance over the fabric of the chair, feeling his bare feet press against the stone of the balcony. 

“We could really make something of this, you know. We could go on tour together.” 

And with that, Venice snapped like a band in front of him, slipping through his weak grasp. Hannibal’s eyes adjusted to the florescence in his cell. His fingers were coated in melted chocolate where he had been gripping a piece too long. He frowned. There were no napkins. 

Frederick smiled at him, as charming as a ferret. “Oh, silly me. How  _ rude–  _ you can’t go on a tour if you’re locked up in here…” he clicked his tongue three times. “Shame.” 

Hannibal removed his gaze from the mess of his fingers and let his eyes land on the other visitor behind the glass. “I was beginning to wonder why you allow me my art and the gifts. Now I realize my penance is listening to Frederick every time he wants to visit.” 

The corner of Alana Bloom’s red mouth curled up in a familiar half smirk, but scolded herself quickly. “You get the art because watching you pace in your cell would get very boring, very quickly.” 

He raised the chocolate up to his mouth, “And the gifts?” 

“Yes,” Frederick interjected. “Why  _ do  _ you let him have the fan-mail and the chocolates?” 

Hannibal knew Alana well enough to recognize the distaste that creased the edges of her eyes. He had always liked that side of her, a hidden one, that bristled at the arrogance of men. Though the brief affair they shared was a pretense by Hannibal’s design, he had considered her more friend then colleague. Alana was intelligent, and quick-- he had been genuinely intrigued by her. A pity, now, that she would inevitably die by his hand. 

She clicked her cane against the floor. “The only harm done will be the inflation of his ego,” Alana said, as if she were changing the subject altogether. “And he can’t write anyone back without our permission.” 

The  _ our _ was performative. It would be Alana’s call alone, and the room knew it. 

“How many letters have you written, Hannibal?” Frederick’s use of his name was as presumptuous as it was grating. Hannibal regretted very little, but leaving him alive was a prominent feature on that short list. “What sorry suckers must consider you a role model. Twisted little minds that will end up right here with you. Cellmates with the idol.” 

Alana clacked her cane against the floor again. “Don’t poke the bear.” 

Hannibal caught her gaze. “I promise not to swipe my paw through the glass, if you promise to keep him away from it.” 

Frederick’s lips curled and his nostrils flexed as he stumbled back, nearly dropping his notes. “That was a threat if I ever heard one, Dr. Bloom. You’d better muzzle him, or slice out his tongue.”    
  


If anything, Alana looked bored. “And how would that stop him from killing you, exactly?” 

“Get control of him,” Frederick hissed. “Or yours will be the first neck snapped.” 

“Have a good day, Frederick,” She said, gesturing to the doors. 

Hannibal watched silently as he huffed a last insult through the glass before shoving out of the room. “And then there were two,” He popped the chocolate in his mouth and grimaced, not entirely content with the knowledge that he would be licking the residue off his own fingers. “I’d offer you one, but I must admit, they are quite unpalatable.” 

“You are manic today,” Alana said, leaning forward with hands crossed over her cane. “You aren’t usually so open about your distaste of Frederick.” 

“Perhaps prison has changed me,” Hannibal offered. 

Her eyes narrowed. “You keep looking at the clock. What are you waiting for?” 

“The concept of time is a fascinating one. Almost every civilization crafted their own calendar, their own unique way of tracking time, despite time being man-made itself. Does the sun not rise whether or not the bell tolls? We’ve built ourselves a confinement and a social order around it.” 

“Save it, Hannibal. You are going to call him tonight. You’re waiting till I’m gone.” 

Hannibal tilted his head. “For what purpose? You will listen to my call regardless.” 

She seemed surprised at that. “You didn’t deny that you would try to call him.” 

“Should I deny it? Would you feel better if I were not so open about my intimacy with him?” 

“ _ For _ him,” Alana corrected. “Not with. He hasn’t read the letter you sent. He hasn’t asked about you. He doesn’t care, Hannibal. Beyond that lingering bad taste you leave on everyone you’ve touched. He won’t answer.” 

Hannibal considered this, a single, hot flare of something burning the side of his stomach and up his veins. She did not know him like Hannibal did. No one would ever presume to predict whatever he would decide, in the end. Hannibal left her words alone, and turned his attention back to the sound of Venetian water gurgling against the oars of gondolas. The emptiness of the chair on the balcony beside him rang loud. 

__________

They had done this dance twice before, and Hannibal stood behind the table before it could be ordered. His hands clasped behind him; he gave a polite nod. 

Janice eyed him with suspicion, holding the phone close to her chest. “Assuming you want your lawyer again?”

This time, he smiled. “No, not this time. A social call.” 

Her eyebrows shot up. “A friend?”

He kept smiling. 

“I’ll be listening the whole time, you know. And those guys right there—“ Janice gestured to the two police outside the door. “Will be listening too. If you say anything— or even hint at something, we will cut the line and then cut  _ you _ . Got it?”

“Consider me properly threatened,” Hannibal said. “I will be on my best behavior. Now, if you would be so kind as to dial this number.” He recalled it quickly, and recited the digits. 

Janice frowned at him, lines darkening in creases around her lips. “Who is that?” 

“Will Graham. Dr. Bloom knows him well. And also knows I mean to call him. If you don’t believe me, you can clear it with her, first.” 

Something sparked in her eyes, recognition or understanding or something akin to it, and her frown solidified. “She said you might do that.” 

The phone rang once before someone on the other end answered. “Hello, Mr. Graham. My name is Janice Jacobbe, I am a nurse here at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I hate to put you in this position, but an inmate here would like to use his call to speak with you. Do you accept?” 

She paused, listening. “Er— yes. I will connect you, just a moment.” Janice looked up to check if he was still behind the table, which Hannibal had the slightest urge to be offended by. He had yet to disobey any of the rules since his incarceration. 

The phone was placed through the metal box, clinking as the cord got tangled. He waited dispassionately, the front of his jumpsuit pressed into the cold side of the table, until Janice had stepped away and out the double doors which presumably led to the other phone that connected with the cheap plastic one they let him use. 

He moved swiftly, then, reaching inside to grasp the plastic between his hands. Hannibal composed himself, and lifted it to his ear, a single word perched on his tongue. 

“No— no. Don’t. Don’t say anything. I know you’re listening. I can’t—“ The voice on the other end broke. “I can’t hear you yet.” 

Hannibal bit his tongue.

A trembling breath crackled in the receiver. “I told you I didn’t want to see you. Or know where you were. I meant that. Conjoined—“ he barked a laugh. “Conjoined or not, I need a respite from you. You are all over the news, you know. Your face. What you’ve done. They’ve absolved me of my part, so it’s just you. Day after day I sat listening to them sensationalize you. Make your crimes horrific and kitschy. Make you into a monster, generalize what you are to make it easy to put you in a box. They like containing things, like finding names for things. You stood by and watched how they called me broken and crazy; now I stand by and let them call you insane with an artistic quirk.” 

Will let his words hang heavy between them. His voice, raspy with presumably disuse. Hannibal hadn’t heard him speak with such conviction since he shouted his forgiveness in the belly of the chapel. 

“You can— you can talk.” 

Hannibal didn’t hesitate. “What do you think I am?” 

“Me.” 

This, he pondered. “A version of yourself that you do not like.” 

Will liked that; his laugh rang clear. “What did you call me for, Hannibal? Therapy?” 

“Conversation,” Hannibal answered, too easily. “It’s less than stimulating here.” 

“Less than stimulating my ass— I’ll tell Dr. Bloom to crack the cane across your palm more often.” 

“Does the thought of causing me pain bring that respite you aforementioned?” This dance, here, was achingly familiar. Something itched between his ribs; it would go un-examined. He let his eyes close, and for the first time in four months, let himself imagine Will’s face. Suddenly, they were in his office in Baltimore, fire flickering in golden shadow across Will’s jaw and almost crooked nose. “Is that why I am here now?” 

Will cocked his head, settling into the chair.“You are caught because you wanted to be caught. I know better than anyone that you do things for your amusement only.”

“And what of your amusement?” 

“Are they not the same?” His words came slurred, dripping in deficiency. Hannibal called up a defense, a stitch in his suit. 

“You are drunk, Will.” 

A beat. “Yes.” 

“In anticipation of this conversation?” 

“It’s always anticipation with you… waiting for you to strike, to cut, to bleed me dry. Anticipating when you will leave again. Anticipating the day you no longer find amusement in letting me know where you are.” 

Hannibal’s own inadequacy ripped through the stitching. “You said you did not want to know.” 

“ _The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away_.” 

“Are you God, Will?” 

“Do you pray to me?” 

“Sometimes.” What could it hurt now, to be honest? “Other times I do not think of you at all.” 

“Too painful?” Will was entirely too astute for his own good, even intoxicated. 

But he wasn’t right. “No, not yet. I don’t have the need to remember you. You will come back soon enough.” 

Will didn’t laugh this time. “What makes you so sure of that?” 

“You picked up the phone,” Hannibal said. 

He watched as Will worked his jaw, dark stubble dappled below his cheekbones. “I was answering a question.” 

“And have you found your answer?”

Will’s shrewd eyes immobilized him. Hannibal wondered, briefly, if Will flushed when he was inebriated. Would his lips be dark and full? The pale skin above his whiskers blushed? “I think so. I always second guess myself with you.” 

Hannibal let his cryptic answer breathe between them. If Will wanted to dangle things over his head to get a rise out of Hannibal, he would be disappointed. He knew Will better than to beg. “Have you thought of me, Will?” 

“They  _ do _ say psychopaths are narcissists. Why would I think about you?” 

“You’ve been thinking about me today. Every time you lifted the glass to your lips you thought of me. The scars etched into your skin, the way they pull and burn when you move, you think of me.” Then, “How is your head?” 

Will sighed, drunk enough to humor him. “Stitches are out, finally. I looked like Frankenstein's monster.” 

“Do you feel like the Creature?” 

“He hated Frankenstein for creating him, and abandoning him to his loneliness. Frankenstein stitched together his design of a companion and then was displeased and refused to give him anyone to find solace in. I can draw a few comparisons.” 

“Ah,” Hannibal said. “Not enough. For the Creature was the one to take loved ones from Frankenstein. Their cruelty is entwined. Every murder the Creature is guilty of we blame Frankenstein for, by proxy. For making him. Did he not give his creation free will?” 

Will scoffed, and Hannibal could see it: the way the scar across his forehead would pucker pink and long, shining as it healed as much as it could. It would be so difficult to hide. His abdomen tightened at the thought. “There is no free will with you. Just eat or be eaten.” 

“Where do you fall on that spectrum? Am I to be your prey?” Hannibal felt a hot lightness in his fingers as his own words consumed him. “Have you found in me someone so bad that killing would feel good?” 

“I don’t fall on that spectrum, I am it. Both lion and lamb, like you.”

Hannibal smiled. “Both fisherman and caught on the hook, Will? You get Biblical when intoxicated.”

“Old habits die hard. My dad got us in an old baptist church sporadically while I was young. Some things stay with you.” 

“Are you picturing my office now, Will?” He lowered his voice. “The way the fire flickered against the bookshelves. Is it raining for you?” 

He felt Will’s pause more than he heard it. “I never left.” 

Hannibal relished the honesty. It was crude to think of Will somewhere, drunk enough to let such omissions pass between his lips where anyone could hear them. But if he were not, where would they be? “Where are you sitting? At my desk, or perched by the ladder? Perhaps you’re climbing it. You are the only patient I have ever allowed up there.” 

Will gifted him a smile of his own, feral and meager, and Hannibal felt filled to the brim. “Sitting in front of you.” 

“You hardly ever did. Hated sitting still and having to look at my eyes.”

“You always saw too much.” 

“I see you. And that terrifies you.” 

Will’s smile didn’t hitch. “The feeling is mutual, I think.” 

And there Hannibal was, lip caught and bloody on the hook, reliant upon Will’s fickle mercy. Was he to be dinner; skinned and flayed and eaten bit by bit? Or released and thrown back into the waves? Which, Hannibal humored, would be the merciful one? “It is. We see each other. Lonely, without one another, like you once said. Are you lonely?” 

“You made it so I would be.” 

“It is your own cage, Will. You fell into it even after seeing the trap.” 

Will laughed, rough and tasting like iron on the edges. “No, no. Don’t do this. Don’t do that, that  _ thing  _ you do. You’re not the victim. How dare you blame me for being in a position you  _ molded  _ me for.”

“You let me mold you. With Randall Tier,” Hannibal said, “remember how I told you to pick up the scalpel and you did? I showed you were to rip the jaw and you thanked me. You delighted then.” 

Will, the one in the office across from him, shuddered. “ _ Christ.”  _

“Delighted at the cost of betraying us,” Hannibal continued. “Setting a trap for me.” 

“One that  _ you saw!”  _ Will’s voice raised in the receiver, crackling, and Hannibal watched anger run red across his neck. “I called you. I warned you-- you already knew, I was running away with you. I called you because you were my friend and I would have gone anywhere with you. Even before I knew that Abigail--” 

The sound of his sobs echoed in the office, tears falling in tandem with the rain outside the glass pane. Hannibal breathed in and smelled salt. 

“I see her all the time.” Will admitted, voice wrecked and thick. 

“I know,” Hannibal told him. “I see her too.” 

Will breathes out sharply, painfully. “She talks about you. On my way to Italy, she wanted me to join you.”

“And now?” 

“Now… she tells me I look bad in ties. And that I think about you too much.” He inhaled, shaky, and released it deep. “I can’t do this, Hannibal. We can’t do this.” 

He heard Will shuffle, and the steady rhythm of his breathing was gone. Static rustled in his ear. Hannibal swallowed, and focused his attention to the stale plastic phone in his hand, the stiff jumpsuit he wore, and the glass slicing the room in half. 

Gently, he placed the phone back in the metal box and made his way behind the table, clasping his hands together and Janice entered the room. 

_________________

Will woke up to a pounding headache. 

Tetra was pawing the blanket, whining to go out. His vision was blurry, and the light streaming through the window made his eyes feel like they were bleeding out of their sockets. Will blinked. Blinked again. Then he sat up. 

Blood rushed out of his head, top heavy, and almost laid back down again. The sun was up, and bright, so it had to have been at least nine a.m. Will tried to move, but his stomach lurched and he gagged, he fumbled out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. 

He knelt on the tile and threw up into the toilet. 

After dry heaving a few more rounds of half digested whisky, Will used the side of the sink to rise to his feet. He reached for his toothbrush and tried to rinse the burnt aftertaste off his tongue to little avail. He cupped water into his hands and splashed it on his face, drying it with the hand towel. 

His eyes were rimmed red, lips chapped and dark. His curls plastered to one side, which left the scar on his forehead on full display. 

He remembered then to let the dogs out; they were grateful enough to not be too cross, but their bowls were empty and Will filled them with more than a little regret. 

His temples pounded against his skull, and his eyes were permanently squinted, but his bones didn’t ache. It was, perhaps, the first night he had slept through in months. 

Last night seeped into his veins bit by bit; Hannibal’s voice, their flirtatious dance, the mention of Abigail… 

Will wasn’t sure if he had hung up deliberately, or if the time restriction Alana had put in place had gotten to them first. The thought of Alana filled him with hot dread, and he checked his phone. Sure enough, two missed calls from her. There was also a text from Molly. 

For some reason, seeing it made him feel caught. 

He glanced at the calendar on the counter as the coffee seeped. Today was the day he would meet Walter, Molly’s son, at his soccer game. He thought of Abigail as the coffee burnt the roof of his mouth. 

_______________

Wally was already lined up with the other boys on his team, blue t-shirt flapping in the wind. 

Molly watched from the bleachers, doing her best not to wave obnoxiously over to him. She got it, the embarrassment a nine year old might feel at his mom making a scene. She smiled anyway, because it was  _ good _ to see him so in his element. A whistle blew, and the boys scurried to get in a huddle. 

“Is this seat taken?”

The sound of his voice tore her eyes away. “Will,” Molly’s smile widened. “I’m so happy you made it.” 

He wore a slightly uncomfortable expression, eyes narrowed. But his cheeks were flushed and his hair was still wet at the roots, like he had been freshly scrubbed. The image was so ridiculously adorable that something clamped in Molly’s chest. She patted the metal bench beside her. “It’s all yours,” she said, answering his question. 

Will sat and the corner of his mouth lifted in a charmingly unsure smile. “It’s nice to see you.” The breeze carded through his curls and ruffled them. “Which one is Wally?” 

She pointed him out, filled with pride. “He’s great,” she gushed. “Trust me. He’s totally gonna kick some fourth grade ass.” 

Will huffed a laugh and watched the field. The game had already started. “I’m going to be honest with you, Mols,” He said, leaning in and pressing their shoulders together briefly. “I know absolutely nothing about soccer.” 

Molly felt her cheeks warm and she relished his nervousness as she explained, his glasses fogging up in the chilly but humid air every so often.

The game passed quickly between Will’s stilted but easy conversion and Wally’s playing. He  _ was  _ great; fast like his dad had been on the baseball field, and determined. Molly had happily resigned herself to letting him do out of school leagues with how much promise he showed, if he wanted it. 

They made their way down the bleachers after the game. Wally’s hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, but he shivered in the cool spring breeze. His eyes immediately went to Will beside her. 

“You did so good, stinker,” Molly said, handing him a bottle of water. “I’m so proud.” 

“So you’re mom’s friend,” Wally said slowly. “Hi.” 

Will offered him an easy smile, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I am. My name is Will, thanks for letting me watch your game. Your mom kept bragging about you, and it was clearly earned.” 

She watched as his eyes relaxed. “Thanks,” he shrugged. “Ice cream?”

They drove separately, and Wally didn’t mention Will. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, just yet. And, a cynical part of her whispered, Will was just her friend. They hadn’t even kissed.

It dawned on her then that she would really, really like to kiss him. 

Will beat them there. He was standing in line by the time the bell rang above the ice cream shop door to announce their arrival. Molly met his gaze-- or, rather, he looked in her direction and she looked at his eyes. He smiled, giving Wally an awkward wave over. 

Her son looked up at her, a small crease planted between his eyebrows. 

“He’s really nice,” Molly told him quietly. “He likes dogs.” 

They made their way over to him, Wally offering Will a crooked smile. 

Turns out, Will Graham was not entirely horrible with kids. He laughed at Wally’s jokes genuinely, even if he very clearly didn’t quite get the punchline. He paid for the ice cream for all of them, and even asked his own questions. In the few weeks that Molly had really known Will, he was a terrible conversationalist; letting Molly do most of the talking while he smiled on and petted the dogs. But here… he was animated and engaged. At one point, he even reached his hand to clasp Wally on the shoulder, gently, like a father would. 

It startled all three of them. 

“Where’d you get that scar?” Wally asked suddenly, nodding up to Will’s forehead. 

Molly froze. She had never asked, they avoided talking about Will’s immediate past if at all possible. But she could guess. 

Will grimaced, eyes and lips drawing in for a moment. It was such a raw expression that Molly felt as though she’d been privy to something very intimate, and had the weirdest urge to look away. 

“I used to, ah,” Will shifted in his seat. “Consult for the FBI.” 

“What?” Wally spun in his chair, giving Will his full attention. 

Will laughed, awkwardly, and nodded. “Sometimes, I’d run into bad guys. The last time I did, he gave me this.” He reached up and gingerly brushed the pads of his fingers against the puckered line. 

“Does it hurt?” Wally’s eyes were as big as saucers. Molly watched, unmoving, as Will considered the question. 

“Yes. But it's more annoying than it is painful.” 

Molly felt herself lean in to him. 

Wally asked him more questions:  _ how many bad guys have you captured? Are you a secret agent? Have you ever killed anybody?  _

“Yes,” Will said. “The first time was to protect a young girl. The second time was to protect myself.” 

Realistically, Molly knew this. Had read about the case of a father who murdered girls who looked like his daughter. How Will had shot him, saving the daughter’s life. How… she had been killed, later, anyway. How Will had been framed for it. 

“What does it feel like?” Wally asked. 

“Walter,” Molly scolded.    
  


Will looked at her, in her eyes. “It’s alright. You never forget it. Even when you know they’re bad people, even when it feels just, it sticks with you like glue. Can’t unstick no matter how many times you wash your hands.” 

Wally nodded. “My dad died when I was a kid. I think I get that glue thing.” 

_______

“I’m going back to Wolf Trap,” Will said. 

“Oh--” Molly looked at him, her face contorted in surprise. 

The buds of leaves were blooming green and supple, offering them cold shade as they walked. The dogs were on leashes; Will trusted them, usually, to follow his heels but Molly had brought Candle, and Will didn’t want to risk anything unnecessarily. 

_ “Well, your tune has sure changed,”  _ Abigail had teased him that morning, her dark brows drawn up in mock astoundment.  _ “Not a risk taker anymore, dad?”  _

_ “Different with dogs,”  _ He’d grumbled.  _ “Don’t want Winston to get territorial and go for the jugular.”  _

_ “And where’s your leash, then, dad?”  _

He hadn’t answered her. 

“Not forever,” He clarified briskly. “But I’m gonna sell. And I miss the rest of my dogs.”

Molly, beside him, was nodding. 

“I’ve talked to my friend--” It felt immensely wrong to call Brian Zeller a friend, but he didn’t know what else to call him. “I’ve started paying rent on the cabin. I’m moving to Maine permanently.” His eyes shifted over to her, gauging her reaction. 

Molly grinned at him. “Proud of you.” She said, knocking her shoulder into his. It reminded him eerily of Beverly Katz. “I know how much you loved that place. Even after… you’d experienced some really shit stuff there.” 

“It was a consistent part of my life,” He said. “It was stabilizing.” 

She stopped walking and turned to face him. With the hand not gripping Candle’s leash, she brushed her fingers against his jaw. “I’ll be here when you get back. The dogs can come stay at my house.” 

His throat went dry. “Thank you,” he managed to say before her lips met his. 

__________

It was like he’d left it. 

The grass was overgrown, and a layer of dust covered the table and bed frame. But it still felt like coming home as soon as he saw the tip of the roof in the clearing. 

The wood floorboard of the porch creaked beneath his feet as he knelt to grab the piles of old mail that was collecting by the door. He grabbed it in handfuls. The last time he’d stood on this porch, really stood, blue and red lights had reflected off powdery snow in the dark. Hannibal had been looking at him, and Will had turned away. 

He dropped the letters and junk on the mattress and eased himself down onto it. Something clotted up his throat; probably dust. The letters were mostly useless, some of them were bills. He kept sorting through until papercuts had teased the sides of his fingers and the color white burned his eyes. 

Will didn’t realize he had been looking for something until he was holding it. 

A letter, addressed weeks ago, from the BSHCI. 

There was only one, either Hannibal had only sent this or Alana had cut him off. Before or after the phone call was the real question. 

Something itched in his brain. What did Hannibal have to say to him? The envelope was dated before the end of the month; would it be a repeat of what he’d said that night? Will’s head ached with dull recollection, his words hazy even in his own memory. 

He almost tore it open then and there. But thought better of it. He got up and set it on the counter, while he grabbed an old beer from the fridge. It had been part of a pack from Alana, what seemed like decades ago. It was fine, it would take the edge off. He could already see the sun starting to set. 

It felt empty without his dogs. 

He remembered the way Georgia Madchen had looked at him from under his bed. A sharp pain pierced his chest, and he gripped the beer tightly to keep himself from getting on his hands and knees and checking under the frame. 

His head weighed heavy with memories. Will thought he was stitched up with them, no room for feelings or sensations; just a broken man taped together with ugly, empty memories. 

Will let his eyes shut, lips wrapping around the head of the bottle. He thought about the way Hannibal watched him eat, dark, bottomless gaze following Will's throat as he swallowed. He let himself trudge up the memory of Hannibal sitting beside his bed, smile loose and rare and wholly Will's. How intoxicating it was to be in the sole attention of a man who had the power of destruction-- how he used that power to fan the flames in Will's mind and with the same breath beg for his company. His conversation. How intoxicating it was to know that Hannibal Lecter sat alone in a cell because Will had wanted him to. 

A slap on the wrist. A time-out. 

A _see what you did to me when you left?_

Will felt the timbre of Hannibal's voice in his ears then, caressing and manipulating and being utterly naked because he could not hide from Will anymore. 

The letter on the table taunted him. 

Will stood up and ripped it open. 

Several pages folded neatly inside tumbled out, catching in the air and swaying down. Will snatched them, pressing his fingers hard into the paper, afraid they’d turn to dust if he let go. He unfolded them, and bit back a sob. 

The first was a picture of Abigail-- a sketch. She sat at a harpsichord bench, fingers dancing over the keys, not quite playing but not just plucking notes, either. Will knew immediately that this had happened, and he was transported to Hannibal’s sitting room, the walls and harpsichord and drapes resurfacing in his waves. He imagined Hannibal sitting not far from her, sketching and nursing a glass of blood red wine. 

The second, was a sketch of Florence. Roofs and shingles were the only thing tinged with color, the unmistakable orange red tint. If he were looking at the city below him now, instead of a sketch, Will was certain it would look less exact than Hannibal’s rendition. 

The third, was a drawing of Will. His wrists and ankles were tied, and he was laying on some sort of altar. Blood was dripping from his abdomen, where Hannibal had taken a knife and gutted him open; it dripped down his forehead, too, and caught in the grooves where his lips pressed in a firm line. At the bottom, beneath Hannibal’s signature, read: 

_ He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth.  _ Isaiah 53:7

A shiver scurried down his spine, his lips curled down and nostrils flared. He walked to the kitchen and opened a drawer, finding a forgotten roll of tape. He ripped two pieces off, and pressed them to the top and bottom of the second drawing and hung it above the bed. 

He folded the one of himself and the verse back into the torn envelope. 

The one of Abigail, he held to his chest as he rocked back and forth on the kitchen floor, weeping for the man who continued to take anything Will had left. 

What a lonely world it was turning to be, without the pressure of Hannibal’s knife on his skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa it took forever to get this out, thanks for waiting. 
> 
> comments and feedback are really the two things keeping me writing, thanks for the support so far and I'd love to hear all your thoughts 
> 
> fun fact: today is my birthday woohoo. so. enjoy the angst in my honor 
> 
> if i wrote more hannigram fic would anyone be interested in reading/beta-ing?

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it folks
> 
> next chapter we'll go back to Will's point of view; I've just always been kind of obsessed with what happened during the time jump and Molly.  
> I know I know we'll get to the gay stuff soon, please leave comments about your own headcanons, I need motivation to crank out the next and hopefully more flushed and action packed (action? the action is pining and letter writing... maybe more)


End file.
